I thought he might say something, but he just waved, shyly and awkwardly, and disappeared out the front door.
It was a quiet night in the Holmes household. Could’ve been any night, really.
I worked on a paper about the Civil War for history class. Outside, the day— which had never been particularly bright—dissolved into darkness.
I told Mom I was going to sleep, changed into pajamas, brushed my teeth,
changed the Band- Aid over the scab on my fingertip, crawled into bed, and texted Davis. Hi.
When he didn’t reply, I wrote Daisy. Talked to Davis. Her: How’d it go? Me: Not great. Her: Want me to come over? Me: Yeah. Her: On my way.
An hour later, Daisy and I were lying next to each other on my bed, computers on our stomachs.
I was reading the new Ayala story. Every time I giggled at something, she’d say, “What’s funny?” and I’d tell her.
After I finished it, we just lay there, in bed together, staring up at the ceiling.
“Well,” Daisy said after a while, “it all worked out in the end.”
“How’s that?” “Our heroes got rich and nobody got hurt.” “Everyone got hurt,” I pointed out.
“What I mean is that no one got injured.” “I lacerated my liver!”
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